The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo(121)

I cannot and will not be able to give you the life you are dreaming of here in Los Angeles.

I cannot marry Celia St. James—although I do agree with you that she is a stunningly beautiful woman, and if I’m being honest, I did nurse a small crush on her in Royal Wedding.

But the fact remains that though I have never loved my wife the way I love you, I will never leave her. I love my family too much to fracture us for even a moment of time. My daughter, whom I desperately hope you can one day meet, is my reason for living. And I know that she is happiest with me and her mom. I know that she will live her best life only if I stay where I am.

Angela is perhaps not the love of my life. I know that now, now that I’ve felt real passion. But I think, in many ways, she means to me what Evelyn means to you. She is my best friend, my confidante, my companion. I admire the forthrightness with which you and Evelyn discuss your sexuality, your desires. But it is not how Angela and I work, and I’m not sure I’d want to change that. We do not have a vibrant sex life, but I love her the way one loves a partner. I would never forgive myself for causing her pain. And I would find myself desperate to call her, to hear her thoughts, to know how she is, every moment of every day if I was not with her.

My family is my heart. And I cannot break us up. Not even for the type of love that I have found with you, my Harry.

Go to Europe. If you believe it is what is best for your family.

And know that here, in Los Angeles, I am with mine, thinking of you.

Forever yours,

James

I put down the letter. I stare straight ahead into the air. And then, and only then, it hits me.

My father was in love with a man.





I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I sit on the couch, staring at the ceiling. I think of my memories of my dad, the way he would throw me up in the air in the backyard, the way he would every once in a while let me eat banana splits for breakfast.

Those memories have always been tinged by how he died. They have always had a bittersweetness to them because I believed it was his mistakes that took him from me too soon.

And now I don’t know what to make of him. I don’t know how to think of him. A defining trait is gone and is replaced by so much more—for better or for worse.

At some point, after I start replaying the same images over and over in my mind—memories of my father alive, imagined images of his final moments and his death—I realize I can’t sit still anymore.

So I stand up, I walk into the hallway, and I start looking for Evelyn. I find her in the kitchen with Grace.

“So this is why I’m here?” I say, holding the letter in the air.

“Grace, would you mind giving us a moment?”

Grace gets up from her stool. “Sure.” She disappears down the hall.

When she’s gone, Evelyn looks at me. “It’s not the only reason I wanted to meet you. I tracked you down to give you the letter, obviously. And I had been looking for a way to introduce myself to you that wasn’t quite so out of the blue, quite so shocking.”

“Vivant helped you with that, clearly.”

“It gave me a pretense, yes. I felt more comfortable having a major magazine send you than calling you up on the phone and trying to explain how I knew who you were.”

“So you figured you’d just lure me here with the promise of a bestseller.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Once I started researching you, I read most of your work. Specifically, I read your right-to-die piece.”

I put the letter on the table. I consider taking a seat. “So?”

“I thought it was beautifully written. It was informed, intelligent, balanced, and compassionate. It had heart. I admired the way you deftly handled an emotional and complicated topic.”

I don’t want to let her say anything nice to me, because I don’t want to have to thank her for it. But my mother instilled in me a politeness that kicks in when I least expect it. “Thank you.”

“When I read it, I suspected that you would do a beautiful job with my story.”

“Because of one small piece I wrote?”

“Because you’re talented, and if anyone could understand the complexities of who I am and what I’ve done, it was probably you. And the more I’ve gotten to know you, the more I know I was right. Whatever book you write about me, it will not have easy answers. But it will, I predict, be unflinching. I wanted to give you that letter, and I wanted you to write my story, because I believe you to be the very best person for the job.”

“So you put me through all this to assuage your guilt and make sure you got the book about your life that you wanted?”

Evelyn shakes her head, ready to correct me, but I’m not done.